Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “My husband,” Alessandra said, touching his arm, “don’t fret.” We say the things we do out of affection. If you were disliked or feared, we could not tease you.” She nodded toward Margaret. “Ask Donna Margharita if this is not so.”

  “I believe you,” he muttered, but could not disguise a tinge of satisfaction in his voice.

  Lodovico awakened far into the night. He turned in his bed, his thoughts in turmoil. A fragment of a dream clouded his mind and it took him a few moments before he realized what had brought him out of his sleep—someone was pounding on the door.

  Beside him, Alessandra stirred and opened her eyes. “Santa Maria,” she yawned. “Who comes at this hour?”

  “I don’t know.” Belatedly, Lodovico climbed out of bed and searched for a chamber robe to throw over himself.

  “Nerissa should have got it,” Alessandra murmured, petulance in her voice now. “She or Carlo. Carlo must have heard—whoever that is arrive. One of them will get it. They’ve wakened by now.”

  The knocking had not ceased. Lodovico muttered under his breath and fumbled about the dark room searching for his robe. At last his fingers closed on the garment and he pulled it from the peg on the outside of the tall wardrobe against the far wall. Tugging the robe over his arms, and feeling for the belt, he made his way back across the room to the table where he knew a lantern stood. He hit the table with his hip, then patted at its surface until he found the lantern. His fingers closed on the steel, and a moment later struck a spark on the flint. On the second try, the lantern took the flame and there was light in the dark, shuttered room.

  In the hall, Lodovico hesitated and called for Nerissa, but the cook did not answer. He shrugged this off uneasily, reminding himself that there were many men and women who, once asleep, would not waken for anything short of a cannon.

  He made his way down the stairs and into the entryway. The blows on the door were less frequent but just as determined. Lodovico set the lantern in the niche side the door and drew back the heavy wooden bolt.

  The night was filled with moonlight, the air the color of sapphires. It was warm still, and the sounds of insects and frogs made an eerie chorus in the distance.

  “Messer Ariosto?” the man at the door demanded.

  Lodovico, still half asleep, gestured and stood aside for the visitor to enter. “Come in. Forgive me. The hour…”

  “You must forgive me,” was the prompt answer from the tall young man. “If it were not urgent, I would never have wakened you in this way.” He spoke Italian a strong accent and his dress was foreign.

  “But who?” Lodovico took the lantern and held it close to the stranger. “I don’t know you.” He felt a slight apprehension as he said this, and wondered if it had been wise to let this man into his villa.

  “I am William Roper, Margaret’s husband.” He bowed slightly and smiled.

  “Ah. A great pleasure, though I am curious about time you’ve chosen to come to visit me.” He put the lantern down again. Now that his interest was aroused, he began to enjoy the absurdity of the situation. He motioned vaguely toward the antechamber and said, “We might be more comfortable sitting.”

  “Very much so,” William Roper agreed at once, and went swiftly into the room.

  Lodovico secured the door bolt again and followed this most unorthodox guest, setting the lantern on the table where he put his books and papers when he was teaching Margaret.

  “I realize that this is an odd time to come here. You must believe that my mission is urgent. He had sat on the bench along the wall and was reaching into the long, ornamental sleeve of his giornea. He was dressed dancing, not riding, in sculptured velvet. “I was asked to come in secret.”

  “And pounded on my door,” Lodovico pointed out.

  “I had to rouse you. I was told that no one should know that I have been here.” His manner now was apologetic. “Damian asked me to do this for him. After all he has done for us, taking in the family and offering protection…I could not refuse.”

  “Damiano sent you?” Lodovico was suddenly alert. What little of the dreamlike muzziness that had clung to him was gone. “Why?”

  “He asked me to bring this to you. He had taken a folded and sealed parchment from his sleeve and he held it out to Lodovico. “He instructed me to be certain that you read it so that I may return your answer.”

  Lodovico took the parchment in cold fingers and stared down at the impressions on the wax seals. It was the de’ Medici arms, without doubt. He had seen that seal many times. He broke the wax with care so that the parchment would not be damaged, then spread out the sheet. Before him was the familiar, sloping hand.

  “To my dear friend, who doubtless deserves better from me:

  “I am setting aside my principles and must insist…”

  A sudden disturbance behind him made Lodovico turn. He put his arm across the letter as he looked up into Nerissa’s face.

  “Master…I didn’t realize…I heard…” Her plain, round face was bunched and lined by her distress. “I thought…but Carlo didn’t…”

  Lodovico did not attempt to sort out all the fragments she gave him. He chose the last and most obvious of her statements. “Yes. Where is Carlo?”

  “Her face went a custardy color. “I don’t know. I called him. I went to his quarters. He isn’t there. He’s gone. A girl, perhaps. I don’t know.” Each phrase came out in pants and Lodovico had the impression—though why, he did not know—that the woman was lying. “I…Don’t turn him off. He has to stay here. He has to…”

  “I’m not going to turn him off for wenching,” Lodovico said, to quiet his cook. “Any night but this one it would not matter. It’s a small thing.” He glanced at his guest. “This gentleman needs some wine after his ride. See if you can find him some.”

  Nerissa clapped her hands across her ample bosom and dragged her chamber robe more tightly around her, then turned, and with a sound such as an enraged mouse might make, fled down the hall.

  William Roper laughed quietly. “A nervous woman.”

  “Yes,” Lodovico said slowly, scowling. “A nervous woman.” But Nerissa was not often nervous, and when she was, it inevitably centered on her blacksmith cousin. Where had Carlo been? Where had he gone? Why had Nerissa been so…frightened? He stared ahead, pondering these questions until William Roper’s tactful cough brought his attention back to the letter hidden under his sleeve.

  “I gave my word I would watch you read it,” Roper said mildly.

  “Of course.” Lodovico felt slightly embarrassed. He held the parchment up to the lantern and resumed reading.

  “…principles and must insist that you return to Firenze. I will expect you within the week.

  “Forgive me.

  “Damiano”

  Lodovico stared at the page. He was being recalled to Firenze. His eyes shone and be wished he could laugh. Damiano had need of him at last!

  William Roper looked puzzled. “You’re pleased?

  “Pleased? I’m delighted!” Lodovico read the letter again, to be certain he had not misunderstood. No. There it was, in that slanting, angular writing. He was ordered back to Firenze. Within the week.

  “And what shall I tell him?” William asked. “He was concerned about your work, and said that if you wanted more time…”

  Lodovico looked up from the page, grinning. “I can finish my work in Firenze. Tell him yes. Tell him that I am grateful.”

  A strange expression flickered on William Roper’s face, but it gone before Lodovico could identify it. “That’s odd. Damiano said much the same thing. He will be grateful to you if you are willing to return.”

  “Willing?” Lodovico could hardly contain his satisfaction. “I have been hoping for this.”

  “Damiano asked that I remind you of his warning,” William Roper went on, puzzled. “All this secrecy—sending me off in the middle of the night, instructing me to tell no one where I was going, bringing you back to Firenze in this manner. What is the m
an playing at?”

  “At last,” Lodovico murmured, not really hearing what Roper was saying. “At last. Grazie al Iddio.” He could imagine Alessandra’s pleasure when he told her of this summons. She would giggle with joy, and though Lodovico did not like giggling, in this instance it would be welcome. Then he realized he had not heard all that William Roper had told him. “Your pardon. I wasn’t listening.”

  Roper chuckled. “Damian predicted you might well react this way, with joy. It was…disturbing.” His expression turned inward and his face was troubled.

  “Disturbing? In what way?” Was Damiano playing with him then, and this was a joke? There was nothing in the message that implied it.

  William Roper answered reluctantly, speaking slowly. He could not look at Lodovico. “There were tears in his eyes when he said it.”

  PART III

  La Fantasia

  Below him, the landmarks were exactly as Nebbiamente had described them. Lodovico grinned his approval as Bellimbusto flew west-northwest over the amazing verdure of this magnificent land. He had passed over the narrow valley some time before, and had marveled at the tall, lance-straight pines and the river which poured through the valley like liquid diamonds. Now he was over the wider valley, and here there were groves of fruit trees, and deer wandered among the trees nibbling on the bounty that drooped eagerly down for them. He thought that Paradise must look so, for he had never seen such abundance.

  Yet he was wary. His experience with the birds had shown him that much of the peace was illusory. He was armed now with more than Falavedova: he carried two javelins and a bow. Arrows lay in a quiver buckled to his saddle and there were two long knives tucked into his high boots.

  “Remember,” Fumovisione had warned him before he had mounted Bellimbusto, “the nearer you come to the Fortezza Serpente, the more you will be susceptible to his power. You must go cautiously, and be alert for any danger.” The wizard had given him a piece of bark with many strange signs drawn on it in a multitude of colors. “This may help, but I cannot promise.”

  Lodovico had taken the bark gratefully and it now reposed under his shirt where the gold medals on their chain lay. While he doubted the charm would be of much use to him, he had been too far and seen too much to despise any protection offered him. He missed his chittarone, for on such a glorious day it would have been a pleasure to serenade the whole of the sky. Fumovisione had warned him against that as well, saying that it would tell all the forces gathered against him that he was coming toward them. “A wise soldier does not advertise his presence.”

  “I have learned that the hard way,” Lodovico had said with a charming smile. “Never fear, I will remain silent, only think my songs as Bellimbusto soars among the clouds.”

  “We can pray there will be no clouds,” Fumovisione grumbled. “You will not be able to see the landmarks if you are within the clouds. You must see the landmarks. Stay away from the clouds.”

  Though Lodovico knew the advice was good, he found it hard not to protest. “I’ll bear this in mind,” he had promised, then gratefully swung into the saddle, and with a high whistle, had given Bellimbusto the office and the fabled mount rose into the air with a with a great flapping of bronze-and-black wings.

  His eyes scanned the range of hills on the far side of the splendid valley, and suddenly he saw something that banished the lightness from his heart.

  There, on the ridge of the hills, the trees were sere and withered, the grass alternately white and burned. Coming closer now, Lodovico could discern the damage that had been done. The hillside was blighted, and where plenty had been, there was now destruction that would bring famine.

  He nudged Bellimbusto and the horse slid away to the left, giving Lodovico a clearer view of the hills. Now he could see the line of ruin advancing, and at the front of it a column of ash-colored men in frosty armor made their way toward the expanse and luxury of the valley, leaving a growing swath of devastation behind them. Lodovico watched in horror as one squad of warriors, at this distance seeming as small as ants, stopped at a small grove of trees and, not content with chilling the life from them, began a savage extirpation.

  Would it be possible? he asked himself. If the troops of Italia and Falcone could be set in motion quickly, there might still be a chance to save some piece of this beautiful place. He did not want to think of what those inhuman warriors would do to the valley. Quickly he murmured a prayer beseeching heaven to aid him, and then he tugged at the reins and brought Bellimbusto around so that he faced toward their own forces. Even as he urged the hippogryph to greater speed, he was thinking of ways the soldiers could travel faster. Once he turned in the saddle and stared back at the idyllic danger-filled place, then resolutely set his face toward the east-southeast.

  Nebbiamente sat beside the brazier in the center of the tent, saying he wished to listen to the flames. To one side, on heaps of bearskins, Lodovico addressed Falcone and Fumovisione. Though Nebbiamente said nothing, they were all aware that he heard and understood every word.

  “How many would you say there are in the company?” Falcone asked when he had listened to the hideous report.

  “Perhaps as many as two hundred. I did not want to come too near them for fear they would try to spear Bellimbusto, or worse, call up the forces of Anatrecacciatore to rouse the birds against me.” In the dirt between the piles of bearskins Lodovico had scratched a crude map and now he was indicating the movement had observed. “If we march tonight and a good portion of tomorrow, we should be able to reach the valley by afternoon. Fighting would be difficult, but it isn’t likely that we would be able to commence any real assault until the next morning. Perhaps these warriors of flint and frost will not want to fight in the dark any more than we will.”

  “That may be an error,” Fumovisione cautioned them. “They are not men as we are, but potent beings that are not subject to the same weaknesses and laws that govern us. I fear we must assume that they will fight at any time, in any place, under any conditions, until they are broken and unable to move. We must render them immobile if we wish to vanquish them.”

  There was a silence in the tent for a moment as each man grappled with the implications of Fumovisione’s warnings.

  “We need catapults,” Lodovico said with a gesture of despair.

  “You mean those machines that hurl rocks at walls? They are not any more use than cannon would be.” Falcone glared down at the lines drawn in the earth.

  “Then siege machinery of some sort,” Lodovico protested. “There are towers that offer protection and give archers a platform from which to shoot…” He stopped. There is also Bellimbusto. I can take him up, and drop stones on the flint and frost soldiers. I am sorry that there are no petards, for a line of those explosives set up at intervals might be very useful. Most of the time they are used to blow holes in gates and walls, but the principle is the same. We could blast the unnatural things to pieces.”

  “But as you say, we have no provisions to make them,” Falcone sighed, which was as great a show of emotion as he would permit himself.

  “Wait,” Fumovisione said just as Lodovico was about to get to his feet. “You are too hasty. Give me a moment…” He put his first fingers together under his chin, like a particularly sagacious baby. “I may be able…”

  It was at that moment that Nebbiamente spoke at last. If there are other traps, as if for game—nets, deadfalls, and the like—then it may be possible to harm them.”

  “No one is going to stand still while you build a deadfall and then walk into it,” Fumovisione said contemptuously.

  “No, naturally not,” Nebbiamente agreed with a vague wave of his hand. “Still, it might be possible for one group of warriors to engage these enemy troops and then fall back, with guidance, of course, and lead the troops of Anatrecacciatore into the snares we set for them.” He leaned his head back and stared up into the gloom. “It’s merely a suggestion. I am not a warrior, I am a priest. What can I do?”

  Fa
lcone was about to fling an insulting remark at Nebbiamente, then stopped and looked once more at the map Lodovico had made. “Let me see. There is a river, you say?”

  “There are two,” Lodovico assured him, “and both are fed by a number of springs. One of the rivers is here, near the eastern slope of the valley, and the other is approximately here”—he pointed out an uneven line—”down the center of the valley. The western slope has a number of springs, though I suppose they will be useless and unhealthy now that the soldiers of Anatrecacciatore have crossed them.”

  “What if we use the rivers for our protection?” Falcone suggested, his brow creased in thought. “How do these soldiers fare in water, do you know?”

  “There is no way to know,” Fumovisione shook his head. “It may not faze them at all. They would be poor soldiers if they could not get wet.”

  “I haven’t seen them cross water, so I can’t tell how much it affects them.” Lodovico stared down at the map again. “Arrows fletched with duck feathers stop them. Or the reanimated skins of fallen warriors. We’ll have to gamble on that.” Though he was apprehensive, he knew he must not reveal it in his manner. He smiled broadly, jauntily. “Our men are strong, well-armed, and committed to this fight. With the help of God, we will prevail.”

  Fumovisione looked away, saying remotely, Anatrecacciatore has his god, too, who will aid him.”

  “The powers of Satan are not equal to the might of God,” Lodovico assured him, and got slowly to his feet. “We must gather our captains together and alert them to our plans. That way, should anything happen to any of us, these good men may carry on the battle.”